Good Friday.

There wasn’t much that was good about that Friday. 

Well, maybe the self-righteous religious leaders, who somewhere along the line decided plotting to kill their opposition was justified, maybe they toasted each other when the black day was done.  Maybe they lay awake that night, tasting the gratification of finally having a win, the last word.  It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There were three people executed that day.  We know the backstory of Jesus, but little about the others, just that they deserved it. 

Every player in that scene had an idea of how the story should go.  But on that Friday, twists and turns reshuffled the deck, and no one knew whose hand they would end up in by the end of the day.

Weird friendships were formed.  Jews with the Romans.  Pilate with Herod. 

Barrabas, braced to pay for murder and insurrection, goes home a free man.

A clueless bystander is forced into the tale, a heavy cross given him to carry, and his life will never be uninvolved again.

Claudia, granddaughter of Emperor Augustus, wakes after a terrifying dream, and pleads with her husband, Pilate, to have nothing to do with Jesus.

Joseph, the one “nay” vote in last night’s bitter meeting of the ruling religious Council, risks all by asking Pilate for the honor of caring for Christ’s dead body.

Simon Peter.  Where is bold Peter?   Weeping? Hiding? Drinking?  Does he believe himself to be unforgivable?  Kicked off the team, after last night’s failure?

The three condemned men hang high against the skyline, sharing a battle for breath as the soldiers mock them and callously divide their clothes between them.  They make a game of it, rolling dice, or maybe drawing cards from the hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the ‘Christ’?”

It’s the criminal on his left, glowering.  He has saved enough strength to spit angry words toward the dying man with the “King of the Jews” sign nailed ironically above his head.

“Save yourself and us!”  But he’s mocking, not praying.

The third man, exhausted and blinded with pain, turns his bloody head and looks past

Christ at the angry man.

“We deserve this.  But this man?  He has done nothing wrong.”  His voice is dry and raspy.

“Jesus,” he croaks, changing his gaze to the man in the middle, “Remember me.  When you come into your kingdom.”

Your kingdom.  I wonder what he thought that meant.

And Jesus, weak and fighting for each breath, humiliated and on display, hears his heart, and turns toward him.

“Today…” 

He stops to suck in another breath, painfully pushing his body upward with his feet to make space for his lungs to expand. 

“…you will be with me…” 

His eyes sting with sweat, but he fixes them on the man, who shares his fate and is fading from this life, too.

“…in paradise.” 

Their nailed hands could not reach out and grip one another’s.  But their eyes did.

And later, while Peter wept and Pilate had a drink and the Centurion likely became the first Roman Christian and a lifetime criminal went to Hell, while three limp, broken bodies lay lifeless in the dirt, Christ and an unlikely follower stepped into the light of another world.  And that scene I can’t imagine without strong arms embracing, without back-pounding and wide grins and strong grips and disbelieving laughter.

The chains, nails, pain, and shame have dissolved into light.

Your story.  It’s still being written.

The welcome, the forgiveness, the release from shame: it’s for you, too.   The “kingdom” is for sinners. If you qualify.

If the deck were shuffled tonight, where would your card fall?